I just flew in from radiation. . .

Radiation began today. My daily appointment is 2:45. They say to allow an hour, but most of the time is waiting and positioning (me and the machine). The actual radiation time is just a couple minutes in two different positions.

I'm on a Siemens machine that's bigger than a Hummer in mass and about as long. My three-woman team is headed by Barbara, radiation technologist. They tell me that this is "my" machine and "my" tech team. My machine may need a hipper nickname. I'm taking suggestions.

Also, yesterday during my dress rehearsal, or "un-dress rehearsal," as NotherFrog called it, they took pictures of my chest and I made the joke they must've heard a thousand times, "Don't let me find these pictures on the internet!" They were very nice and offered a courtesy laugh--much like the ones NotherFrog gets when he shares a pun in a math class. It's clear this joke is old. I'm going to need some newer material. Send in your smart remarks, cute comments, and the latest medical humor they will not have heard before. I'm issuing a challenge to make my radiation techs laugh!

The room is of course lead-lined. Very dangerous stuff, the signs warn. The door looks about eight inches thick. It takes the techs several minutes to leave the room, allow the door to complete its safety lock and reach the control room. They watch me through a number of conspicous cameras in the room. They assure me that if I need them I can holler (although they won't hear me) and signal them that I need help. It would take a while to get back in the room because the door is locked tight.

The hospital has tried to make the room cheery. There's a photo collage of the natural world on the wall as you enter. Close-ups of bark, leaves, trees, clouds. Nice. Unfortunately, as they have me lying on my back with my legs uncrossed, my hands above my head and my eyes looking straight up, I can't enjoy the designers' efforts long. I just see three red lights. The techs emphasize not to move--anything! When I was in high school, my orthodonist hung posters on the ceiling so that as we got our metallic adjustments, we could be advised by a cute kitten on a branch to "Hang in there," or reminded with a photo of a scenic country road that, "The Road to Hell is paved with Good Intentions." Those probably wouldn't fly here but in the waiting room there's an "I Love Lucy" puzzle being assembled by those who wait. It's Lucy and Ethel on the candy assembly line.

The three red lights are coming out of a 2-inch dark circle in the ceiling overhead. They tell me that these lasers help line up the machine based on the tatoo on my sternum. The machine whirls overhead as they position me, and a ruler is projected onto my chest. They stare down for what seems an eternity, or at least thirty seconds. One tech points to the 45.5 mark projected there. A long remote control connected to the ceiling helps them make adjustments. Two sets of numbers help them position me vertically and horizontally. When changes in my position are needed the other tech, Ellen, moves me using the sheet underneath me. They say, "Don't help me," because they know what they're doing and I don't. There's a lingo here that would make no sense to an outsider. "CM roll" means that the tech needs to roll me just a centimeter. The long metal protrusion under me is called "the couch." I know this because it has a "couch position" that has to change for the two different radiations. I made a wisecrack about their "insider vocabulary" reminding me of ordering at a diner. A slight giggle--they've heard that one before, too.

The machine makes a loud buzz similar to a bagpipe warming up. After the first waves are shot through my breast, part of my heart, and portions of my rib cage and left lung, they finally return after the safety door releases. They change the "couch position" for the waves that will be shot up through my left side. They get everything in position, leave the room, wait for the door to seal me in this lead-lined room and after another few minutes of humming and buzzing, I'm left waiting a few more minutes before the techs return. I'm sure it's the door that slows them down, but if I were a tech doing this all day I'd be in no hurry to return to a room and be exposed to radiation. My "couch" is then lowered to its original position and the techs on either side of me offer their elbows to help me sit up. It's amazing that I should need help since I have only been lying down and I have no such assistance getting out of bed in the morning. At least not yet.

There is a bank of computer monitors on my left with information and numbers. I have yet to ask what they do. I'm trying to come up with some witty comments first. I tried comparing the red lights overhead to aliens. Again a courtesy laugh. Drat! They've heard that one before also. Since they claim the cameras capture my every move, I thought of waiting for them to leave the room and hold up a sign reads, "Bar-b-que, anyone?" but decided against it. Not because it's in bad taste (which ofcourse it is) but because it took them 15 minutes to get me in the right position and I don't want to mess that up.

Please post your "never-before-heard" radiation tech humor in the comments for the "make my techs laugh" contest. We'll figure out how to post a poll sometime next week so you can choose which back slappers I'll try the following week.